


close to the sun

by Cloudnine101



Category: Atlantis (UK TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dreams, Dubious Morality, Genetic Engineering, Imagery, M/M, Mad Science, Magic, Reincarnation, Science Experiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-03-31
Packaged: 2018-03-20 13:32:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3652206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cloudnine101/pseuds/Cloudnine101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'The thing in the cage is beautiful.'</p><p> </p><p>A study in flight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	close to the sun

He begins construction on a Monday morning, and ends it on a Friday night, some years later. Jason calls, in the meantime - asks if he wants to go out for drinks, says it's been too long. Pythagoras acknowledges, but declines. He's only a few steps away, and then - _then_ -

The thing in the cage is beautiful. It's lithe, and handsome, and muscular; Pythagoras can see it all, through the loose linen. Its hair is matted; dark.

There are bruises, rolling down its cheeks - the only blue things, in the white room.

The others congratulate him - tell him that he has performed a miracle of science, that he should be proud of himself, that he is a hero.

Pythagoras doesn't feel much like a hero. As he leaves, the man's eyes flicker downwards. He tries not to notice. He tries not to care.

That night, he works late, sketching and re-sketching finished designs. When he dreams, he dreams of black-brown eyes, following him down golden sands, as hair curls beneath his fingertips, and skin skims against his own.

He wakes gasping, and halfway to the labs.

 

The next day, the creature hasn't changed position, save to shift its head. This time, it's looking up at the ceiling. Pythagoras takes note; draws its profile, on the back of the sheet. The specimen watches, and says nothing.

There is a buzz in the air, in the compound. Very Important People in the Scientific a Community are being notified; there are mentions of Nobel Prizes, and money. So very, very much money. All the money Jason - and Hercules - could ever want.

Pythagoras bites his tongue. Outside, he tears up the picture, and shoves it to the bottom of the waste-paper basket.

 

_The second time, he sees petals. He's walking through a field; they come up to his shins, blowing gently in the breeze. There's a city before him, that he doesn't recognise; it's tall, with impossibly high walls on every side. Pythagoras can't see beyond them._

_The man waits for him, this time. He rocks with the stems, swaying from side to side - as though a breath of wind might sweep him away. Pythagoras resists the urge to grab hold, and dig his fingers in tight._

_The man smiles at him, all confidence and attitude and white teeth, shoulders rolled back. For a fleeting moment, Pythagoras loses his breath._

He goes out with Jason, afterwards, but it isn't the same. They joke about things he hasn't experienced, and make puns about things he doesn't understand, and laugh about things that he has had no part in. They're back in the same place - but somehow, it isn't the same, and they know it.

Jason's eyes are infinitely, impossibly lacking their spark. Pythagoras looks at him, across the table, as he puts his head close to Hercules's - and, instead, he sees someone else.

Pythagoras excuses himself, and flees.

 

When he arrives, the monster stands. The movement looks painful. There are more purple patches; they've sprouted on his shoulder blades, coiling outwards. Pythagoras wonders how he got them. He wonders how they came to be. He wonders who gave them to him.

Pythagoras presses his palms against the glass. The man does not move.

 

_More flowers; stems curling upwards, towards the sun. Their petals unfurl, gradually; like the fingertips, sweeping over his flesh. He is drawn closer, towards them - towards the light, even as it blinds him, and he can't see anything anymore, apart from outlines and shadows._

 

When Pythagoras comes to, he bends over the front step, and retches. In the doorway to his house, he slumps, shoulders scraping the crumbling bricks and mortar, and buries his face in his hands. There are ink-stains, beneath his nails. By now, they should be washed away.

 

Photographers arrive, their cameras flashing - crowding close, against the scene. Pythagoras wears his best suit. The shadows under his eyes glow.

When he is asked to comment, he declines.

 

_They sit by the water, and watch the tide roll in. The beach is deserted, save for themselves. Light pools over the rocks. In the waves, Pythagoras can see his reflection. It ripples - is distorted._

_The hand, pressing against his back, says otherwise._

 

Pythagoras picks up his pen, and doodles. He draws shapes and spirals and galaxies, in his coffee break. He receives sideways looks, from the corners of eyes - he ignores them, scribbling faster.

Jason tells him he looks tired. Hercules tells him he needs to rest.

The man doesn't tell him anything.

Later, on the trek back to his property, shopping bags chafing in his hands, he looks at the back of his grocery list.

On it, in perfect, minute detail, is a pair of wings.

 

He grows thin.

He takes to walking.

He walks among the city streets, and the worn-out closes, and the parks.

He buys a packet of sunflower seeds, and keeps them in his inside pocket.

He keeps his head above the current, and draws in oxygen, and expels carbon dioxide, and exists.

He has six missed messages; four from Hercules, one from his brother, and one from Jason.

He sits up in bed, with a hand on his chest, and feels his heart flutter.

 

The news of his invention spreads like wildfire.

 

Pythagoras is in demand. He is wanted everywhere.

This could change lives, people say. Genetic modification is the next step in human evolution. What he has done is right - completely, absolutely right. By using the subject's genes, he could grow stem cells, bones, muscle tissue - on demand. The creature's evolution is that fast, and that shocking. It is not human. It was never human. It was grown in a lab. It is artificial.

He could save the world, without lifting his eyes from the page.

Outside the lab, the wind howls.

 

The most basic human right is the right to life. Another is the right to freedom.

Apparently, human rights do not apply to angels.

 

_The man stands in the grass, and looks outwards, towards the sky. The sand is dark, below them; tinged orange, by the setting sun. Beside him, the man's shoulder brushes his own._

_"Don't go," Pythagoras says. His voice is hoarse; cracking from disuse. He tries again. "Please."_

_It has been a long, long time since he has begged. Since he has wanted. Since he has needed._

_The man looks at him; turns his gaze towards the dirt. Pythagoras follows it, already knowing what he will see, and dreading it even so._

_The manacle encircles the man's ankle, chaining him to the dust._

 

Pythagoras screams, and screams, until there is no air left to breathe.

 

He doesn't go into work, that day. Instead, he takes out his diagrams, and pencils over them; line after line after line, and repetitive, stroking motion, turning the grey area black, and the white areas grey.

When he steps back, a face stares out at him.

 

_They are on the sea shore, and Pythagoras knows what is coming. He stands, with the sword in his hands; the blade gleams, in the fading light._

_The man, from where he is kneeling, meets his eyes._

_Pythagoras presses it against the creature's throat; directly into the hollow. If he was to push, blood would spill out over it, and it would be done. The story would be complete. Over. Finished._

_The man nods. Once._

Please.

_Pythagoras brings the sword down._

 

_The chain shatters in half, and bursts into turrets of flame._

 

The lab is empty, when he arrives. Of course it is - Pythagoras timed it to the instant. He always does. What is the point of accuracy, if not to perfect it? There is no point of it. The points of the graph are falling; the charts and maps are burning, under the microscope's lense. The door guard tips his cap, as he passes; Pythagoras hurries on. He cannot return it.

The metal is icy, in the centre of his palm. He doesn't stare at the glass; he keeps himself in check, one foot in front of the other, nerves humming with energy.

It feels, he thinks, a lot like falling.

Pythagoras inserts the key into the lock, and twists.

 

The man approaches the door slowly - almost as though the walls will cave in, if he moves too fast. Pythagoras wants to yell - wants to force him to hurry, wants to grab his chest, wants to feel that touch sweep across his form, making his body hum.

The creature stops, directly before him. Pythagoras forces himself to raise his chin; heighten his shoulders; not melt, not crumple.

He is regarded; steadily, without a blink. Pythagoras's neck heats. His chin is tilted upwards - and there is warmth, pressing against his lips, and he folds into it, without a second thought, without a moment's consideration.

It is over much too soon.

 

_Pythagoras stands on the beach, as the sea lies still, placid and level. The night is dark, and cold; the sun has set, now._

_The man is a few feet away from him - not quite close enough to touch. Chains pool around his feet; he steps it of them, casting them off. Stretching, he reaches upwards - as though he could touch the sky, just by wishing._

_"Icarus," Pythagoras calls out, voice carrying through the dusk._

_Over his shoulder, the being looks back - solidly, silently._

I'm sorry.

_As he turns away, Pythagoras catches a glimpse of a moonbeam; flashing, through polished fangs, and spittle-slicked teeth._

_Beneath the stars, something spreads its arms wide, and soars._


End file.
